


who live, who dies (who tells your story)

by guardianoffun



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Episode: s06e04 Degüello, Gen, Magical Realism, multiple character deaths
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-12-16 12:24:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21036209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guardianoffun/pseuds/guardianoffun
Summary: Morse wakes up one morning to find George Fancy in his house, months after they put the boy to rest. He sticks around for longer than either of them ever planned.(the ghost Fancy fic nobody asked for!)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so um,,, yeh this exploded it was meant to be a cute lil scene thing of Fancy messing with Morse and then I got feelings. idk, this was very self indulgent, I hope you enjoy. There's hints of Morse/Max and you could see the whole thing as incredibly slowburn Fancy/Morse if you wanted, and not gonna lie, there might be a Shirley/Morse followup to this so like,,, yeh idk what pairing i was aiming for lol. 
> 
> bonus game to play, because im a theatre hoe, spot the musical references! i went a bit overboard lol, i counted like eight i think 
> 
> WARNINGS for mentions of vomit, blood and dead people also Degüello spoilers
> 
> also like, canonical character deaths. its a fic abt ghosts, people be dying.

Morse was drunk. Not that that was unusual, actually, but he hadn’t had anything to drink yet, being it was six thirty in the morning. But he had to be, because George Fancy was standing at the foot of his bed. They had buried Fancy some months ago now. He looked pretty healthy, for a dead man. A little pale perhaps, but mostly good. Aside from the messy bloodstain on his shirt, you wouldn’t even know he’d been shot to pieces. 

Morse blinked, hoping that would clear what was obviously a lingering dream, but the more he blinked the fuller the image of Fancy became. Something twisted in his gut, and the urge to vomit hit him so suddenly he barely had time to grab his paper bin before hurling rather spectacularly. 

“Nice to see you too, sir, like the moustache,” Fancy said over his shoulder and Morse flinched. He sounded so real, his voice bouncing off the walls as if he were really there. Morse pressed a hand to his own face, hoping he was feverish with something, but alas, he was as healthy as usual. He groaned.

“Sir?” Fancy asked, and his hand came out as if to touch him. “Morse? Can you hear me?” The spectre sighed, turning on his heels and moping across the room. Though he walked, his feet made no sound. Morse shivered.

“I thought I’d got the hang of it,” Fancy was muttering to himself now, kicking aimlessly at the armchair. His foot went right through it. Morse’s stomach twisted again, and he let out a sickly moan. Fancy glanced over his shoulder and watched as he dry heaved into his bin again, a look of disgust on his face.

“I should have tried Strange,” he said, shaking his head sadly. Morse groaned. Again. Why was this happening to him, what had he done to deserve this? Had he been drugged again? Had he died, and was this his eternal punishment? He took a long breath in and decided, logically, that the best thing to do was tackle this head on. He pushed back the sheets, stood up, nearly toppled over when Fancy took one ghostly step forward and shot his hand out. He couldn’t bring himself to look Fancy in the eyes, so he addressed the wall space behind him.

“What… who are you? What is this?” He asked through gritted teeth. Fancy’s eyes lit up, and he took another step closer. Morse stepped back, legs hitting the bed frame, and sunk into the mattress. 

“I’m DC George Fancy, of Thames Valley Police; don’t you remember me?” the bastard had the audacity to sound offended, as if he hadn’t materialesd at his ex-superiors bed early on a Wednesday morning. Morse buried his head in his hands and fought the urge to throw up again. 

“Of course I remember- I meant what are you?” He felt a headache building behind his eyes already. “You died,” he said softly, hands moving to rub at his chin. A pang of bravery struck him, and he looked Fancy in the eye. He was so sure of his beliefs, that there were no such things as ghosts. He’d known that at Blythe Mount and he knew it here. Yet here Fancy was looking so very real, so very  _ here  _ holding a conversation with him. 

Fancy nodded sagely. 

“That I did, but I’m here now aren’t I? Weird isn’t it? Y’know the whole,” he waved a hand across his bullet ridden chest. “Being dead thing.” Morse tried not to look at the ghastly mess of Fancy’s torso, instead looking back up to his eyes again. 

“Fancy, what’s happening here, I don’t-” He didn’t have time for this. He had to be at work, and Box had a habit of lecturing him on punctuality anytime he turned up a minute past the hour. He stood wearily and shuffled towards the bathroom. 

“I don’t really know either, Morse, I’m still trying to figure this out. You uh,” he ran a hand across the back of his neck. “Weren’t exactly my first choice.” His voice went a little softer then. 

“But I can’t find Shirley, I was hoping, uh you would…” As he trailed off, Morse glanced back over at him. It was as if at the mention of Trewlove, he sagged. He looked a lot more ghostly than he had a few moments ago, a lot more transparent too. Morse felt a knot in his throat. Even if this was all in his head, if it was just him finally processing Fancy’s death, he felt the need to reassure him. 

“She’s moved to London,” he said softly. “Got a job with Scotland Yard.” Fancy perked up a little at that. 

“Oh, that’s… she’s doing good then? She’s okay?” Morse felt shame crawl up his neck. This really was someone’s idea of a supernatural joke wasn’t it?

“I haven’t really, ah, spoken to her.” Something in the back of his mind catches though, and he finds his way to his desk, shoving unopened letters around until he finds the one he’s looking for. Small, barely more than a page, of Trewlove’s slanting script. It gives her address, asks after him, reminds him there’s a bed for him in London should he choose to visit. He hasn’t responded. 

He goes to hold it out to Fancy, who jumps up to grab it, and the pair of them watch it fall through his hands to the floor. Fancy laughs at first, but the sound catches in his throat and dies off pretty quickly. Morse ducks his head, picks it up and reads it out loud instead. He doesn’t look at Fancy, he can’t, but when he looks back up as he finishes, he’s horrified to realise he’s almost faded out of existence. 

“Fancy?” he calls, and Fancy flickers a little, like a broken lightbulb. He comes too, and he gets a little brighter. He grimaces. 

“Sorry, it takes a lot of concentration to um, hold form I suppose.” 

Morse nodded, because of course it did, of course that was how being a fucking  _ ghost  _ worked. For a moment he didn’t know what to say, too busy processing the fact Fancy was even here, till he remembered he had work, and that he should probably shower before that. He made his excuses to Fancy, who said he would wait for him here - wait for what, exactly, Morse didn’t ask - so Morse ducked out to the bathroom. There, he could strip off, stand under the hot water and swallow down the rising fear that he was going mad. 

When he left the bathroom, he felt marginally better. He was going to carry on about his day, because he had work to do, but he was supposed to be meeting with DeBryn around midday, a prearranged lunch to escape the confines of his basement office. While he was there, he’d ask DeBryn what else might cause such vivid hallucinations, because it certainly wasn’t drugs, or drink, or a concussion. It had to be something else. Till then, he’d ignore the figure of Fancy as best he could. Which was hard, because he seemed intent on following Morse around. 

He kept a respectable distance as he dressed of course, but he lingered in the kitchen as Morse swallowed back overly bitter coffee, and bounced on his heels whilst Morse tied his laces. As Morse stalked out of the door, pulling his scarf tight around his neck, he glared at Fancy. 

“Look, I still don’t know if I believe you’re here,” he said, with a glare that stopped Fancy interrupting. “For all I know you’re undigested beef, or a tumour or something. But if you  _ are  _ what you say you are, Fancy I need you to just…” he waved a dismissive hand. “Stay… quiet. The last thing I need is Box breathing down my neck because of this.” 

Fancy screwed up his face, but looked resigned. 

“Yeah, Morse I’m not a complete idiot,” Morse snorted. “I’m not! And Box, what about him? Since when do you worry about that prick?” 

“Since he became my DI,” he snapped, realising he’d said that quite loudly as a young woman passed by with a pram. The sound of her heels on the pavement sped up as she passed him. Fancy spluttered, and Mores used it as an opportunity to speed on ahead, crossing the road to avoid the woman. 

He spent the next thirty minutes muttering to Fancy out the side of his mouth, updating him on what had happened in the time he’d been gone. Perhaps it was the fact that he still wasn’t totally sure Fancy was even real, or maybe he had just been holding it in too long but it felt good to tell it all, from the start to someone. To describe the growing rift between himself and Thursday, to explain the uneasy feeling all of Box’s men gave him. Fancy nodded along, humming here and there in agreement, making shocked noises where appropriate. For a moment it was like he’d never gone, and Morse would say something a little too loud and make some old woman start, and he’d remember he was talking to a dead man. It was a very odd feeling. 

He stalked into the station, Fancy at his heels. He had horrifyingly, become accustomed to whispering under his breath at him, and so kept up the stream of conversation till he rounded a corner and nearly crashed into Box headfirst.

“Watch it Sergeant,” he snapped, shoulder clipping Morse’s. Morse kept his lips pressed tight, but Fancy looked sour and peered at Box’s face as he passed.

“Still an utter knob I see,” he muttered. Morse snorted. Box’s shoulders squared and he looked back at Morse.

“Something funny?” Morse slapped a hand over his mouth, choking back the laughter that threatened as Fancy pulled faces beside Box (God he was so childish sometimes). 

“No,” he said with a smirk. Box narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms. 

“Just keep your mouth shut Morse.” 

“Just keep yer mouth shut Morse,” Fancy mimicked in a bad approximation of Box’s voice. Morse bit his lip, hard and then hurried away before Box could berate him anymore. He waited until they made it to the safety of his office, with the door pulled tight behind him, to scold Fancy. 

* * *

A few hours later, and Morse was loathe to admit it but he was getting used to his hallucination-Fancy, and he was proving helpful in getting his paperwork done in double time. He peered over Morse’s shoulders offering answers and solutions and Morse found he didn’t hate every single one of them. When they had conquered a reasonable stack, and the clock struck eleven, Morse decided that enough was enough. He’d hop out early, see if DeBryn wouldn’t check his head before they ate. 

Reaching back to pull his jacket and scarf off his chair, he called over his shoulder without even realising it. 

“You coming Fancy?” He wasn’t expecting the creak of the door to answer him. 

“Morse?” Thursday’s voice cut across the sudden quiet. Unease squeezed at Morse’s chest. He turned to face Thursday, who had an envelope in his hand. Morse said nothing and tightened his scarf around his neck, feeling Fancy’s eyes on him from across the room. Thursday shuffled the brown package from hand to hand. 

“I heard… I thought you said…” 

Morse shucked on his jacket, hoping his silence read as moody stubbornness rather than a lack of an answer. How  _ did  _ he explain that? He pulled at his ear, head ducking towards the floor. 

“Force of habit,” he mumbled, despite rarely having invited Fancy anywhere ever. “Forget he’s not here sometimes.” He hoped that would slide if he pulled sad enough looking face.

Thursday nods stiffly. Fancy by now has stepped in between them and Morse could feel his gaze drifting between them. Wondering why the space between them seems so huge now, why there’s a cold air about them that neither can shake. 

“Is that for me?” Morse asked indicating to the parcel. Thursday’s head snaps up and he shakes it, shoving the envelope in his coat pocket. 

“Oh no, I just… heard you. Thought I’d come… check in.” It was a poor line. Morse grimaced. 

“I don’t need babysitting sir, despite what you might think I am actually capable of police work.” He jerked a thumb towards the stack of completed forms. 

“If it’s all the same to you, I have lunch booked,” he started and Thursday stood back to bid him pass. He stalked past him with a bitter taste in his mouth and a pain in his chest. 

* * *

Fancy wanted to say something about it, Morse could tell. He itched to ask more but he was smart enough not to. They drove in relative silence, though Morse couldn’t help but wonder how the logistics of hauntings worked if Fancy couldn’t catch a pen but he could work his way around a car. Either way, Morse pulled up at the cafe across the way from the hospital, grabbing the table he and the doctor usually claimed. He found he had shuffled himself across the booth, leaving room for Fancy, and realised how strange that was being that nobody could see him. Again, he was annoyingly used to this already; he deeply hoped it was just some strange dream, because the thought of being stuck with Fancy for eternity was daunting to say the least.

The ex-sergeant in question hovered by the end of the table, perfectly content to shove his hands in his coat and linger an inch or so off the ground in his ghostly fashion. Morse tried not to engage him in conversation, feeling he had much less of an excuse talking to himself in an empty booth. It gave Fancy plenty of time to talk, which he did at great speed. He mused aloud about the changes at the station, the oddity of it all, and how much he didn’t like it. Morse was reluctant to admit he agreed with him on nearly every point.

When DeBryn arrived he found Morse staring into a lukewarm cup of tea, eyes fixed on some spot in the distance. 

“Afternoon,” the doctor said, and Morse didn’t seem to notice him, until he dropped his bag under the table and dropped into the booth opposite him. Morse flinched, then righted himself as DeBryn peered at his quizzically.

“Are you quite alright Morse?” DeBryn asked, watching as Morse’s eyes darted around and eventually found him.

Morse, who had just watched Fancy shimmer like - well a ghost - as DeBryn passed through him like he wasn’t even there, felt a little sick all of a sudden. Fancy had let out a pained sort of whimper, shuddering slightly. DeBryn was watching Morse expectantly when his eyes finally landed back on him.

“Afternoon, I uh-” he nodded slowly. “Yes, I’m fine. Heavy case is all.” 

DeBryn gave him a disbelieving look, but said nothing. Morse pushed a menu towards him, and they passed easy chatter as they ordered. DeBryn a toastie, Morse a cup of tea and a muffin. 

“If you don’t mind actually, I wanted to pick your brains,” Morse said, pulling the muffin apart DeBryn smiled over his drink at him. 

“Not too squeamish for that are we?” Morse rolled his eyes and pointedly ignored Fancy’s chuckle. 

“Very funny. No, I just wanted a medical opinion-” DeBryn gave him a once over, and then gestured to his rather lackluster lunch. 

“I could offer quite a few, the first being a proper lunch.” 

Morse tried not to snap. Usually he didn’t mind DeBryn’s brand of humour, but every second he sat beside the spectre of George Fancy felt like another second slipping into madness. He was starting to think he might  _ actually  _ exist, and if that wasn’t a sign of something very wrong then he didn’t know what was. 

“I’m not- I don’t need food, I need your help,” he said, though he shoved a piece of the cake in his mouth to appease him. DeBryn waited for him to continue, genuine curiosity now shining in his eyes. 

“What can cause hallucinations?” he mumbled through a mouthful of crumbs. DeBryn, rightfully, looked confused but he answered nonetheless. 

“Well drug use, of course, or neurological disease. Stress, in the right circumstances can lead to hearing voices, that sort of thing. Fever, tiredness, quite a number of things actually? What’s this in aid of?” He asked, picking at his lunch. 

Morse, who had not actually thought this far ahead scoured his brain for a plausible explanation. 

“Case,” he said, before cramming the rest of the cake in his mouth, hoping that would appease DeBryn. The doctor looked confused, but said nothing. The pair ate quietly for a moment, till Morse heard Fancy lean in and whisper.

“You still don’t believe I’m here do you?” Morse struggled not to answer instantly, swallowing down tea instead. DeBryn was watching him quite closely, and caught his eyes darting to the same spot in the near distance.

“Morse, are you  _ sure  _ you’re feeling alright? You seem a little jumpy.” 

DeBryn was a very smart man, he connected dots for a living. He peered at Morse, and tried to ask more, but Morse kept his answers brief, and the lunch briefer. He apologised for feeling perhaps a little under the weather, and then sped from the cafe at top speed.

* * *

He cornered Fancy once they were back in the relative privacy of his office. He jabbed an accusing finger in his direction.

“Why me Fancy?” he said, a slight note of hysteria creeping into his voice. Nothing DeBryn had listed off sounded plausible, and he had the horrible, sinking feeling this was just really happening, and that idea terrified him. There had to be an explanation, some cosmic answer. Was Fancy here to teach him the error of his ways, how to love again, or the true meaning of Christmas? 

But instead of a real answer, Fancy just shrugged. Morse was about ready to tear his hair out. 

“Why are you here,  _ how  _ are you here? Why can’t anyone else see you- could they?” An idea struck him. “Could DeBryn see you? If you wanted him to, you could show him-” Fancy flickered then, pale face fading in and out of existence. 

“This is hard Morse, really hard. And it’s not like I really understand it myself, but you have to have…” he trailed off, looking for the right words. “A connection, I guess.”

His hand fidgeted, thumbs twirling sheepishly. 

“I mean, I could try with Shirley, I suppose, now I know where to find her.” Morse ran a hand across his face, because that explained very little, and asked about a hundred more questions. 

“But why not Thursday? Or DeBryn, Strange? Bright, for God’s sake!” Fancy shrugged again, shoulders up to his ears like a surly schoolboy. It seemed he had an answer, he was just reluctant to give it. 

“They’re not… it’s not the same. Or it wasn’t. I barely knew DeBryn, and Thursday only spoke to me when necessary, didn’t he? But you, sir… Morse you’re different. I  _ like  _ you. I thought we, you know... “ He somehow turned quite red for a dead man. “Thought we could have been friends. Before I died I mean.” 

Something in Morse’s chest smarted at that. He had been so quick to snap at Fancy, quick to judge another bumbling constable for being a dime a dozen mediocrity. Not that he had disliked him, only he had been fast friends with Strange, and if people liked Strange, they usually didn’t like Morse. The thought that Fancy had actually taken a liking to him, despite his surly attitude and habitual grumpiness threw him a little. Morse found himself unable to look Fancy in the eye again. 

“I… Probably,” he said, throat too tight to form any really words. “Given time, I think… yes.” The silence between them stretched on for a moment, before Fancy shook his head, grinned again and waved a hand. 

“Anyways, like I said, it’s not easy doing this. I could try with DeBryn though, if you want to be sure you’re not going mad?” Morse almost nodded, but then a better idea struck him. 

“Let me call Trewlove.”

* * *

When Shirley answered the phone, she sounded a little shocked. It had been some months since her letter, and had probably written Morse off by now; he had told her he was rubbish at these sort of things. He invited her up, offered her dinner by way of catch up, but she danced around her answer. Morse could understand that, not wanting to come back here. It had taken him years to face up to returning, and Shirley had arguably lost so much more. 

Instead, she asked him down to London, promising the best pub and tickets to a show if she can get them. She doesn’t ask what’s prompted his call, and Morse is glad because Fancy is watching him on tenterhooks, bouncing on his heels beside the phone. By the time Morse hung up, agreeing to visit that Friday for the night, Fancy was pacing the floor. He looked up, bright eyed and excitable. Morse fixed him with a long look. 

“I’m still not convinced I’m not imagining this all. But if I don’t die between now and Friday, and you can get Shirley to see you?” he ran a hand across his face. “I might have to believe it’s true.” 

Fancy stuck around for the evening, watching Morse shuffle around his flat and bullying him into eating something more substantial than the packet of crisps he’d fished out of the cupboard. As Morse slathered jam on his over-done toast, he groused at the prospect of his own subconscious trying to feed him up like this. He ate it though, glaring at Fancy who just rolled his eyes at him. By the time he was done, Fancy was looking a little pale, and once again, a little transparent. He flickered for a second, then sighed quietly. 

“I think I should go Morse, I’m not-” he vanished for a second, and Morse would be lying if he said he didn’t panic for a second. Then he popped back into view. “Not supposed to stick around this long,” he said with a laugh. Waving a hand at Morse, he faded out slower this time. 

“Night Morse.” 

Morse waved, and found himself replying to an empty room. 

* * *

Fancy’s there again, the next morning, scaring Morse shitless when he appeared in the mirror as he brushed his teeth. Choking on toothpaste, he glared at the laughing spectre till he could rinse. At least he’s got to grips with his whole ghost-ness now, able to shimmer away the mess of his chest and drop the coat he’d died in. They work out the logistics of it, sort of. Fancy can come and go at will, but the longer he stays, the paler he gets and then he goes all transparent; flickering in and out of existence like some sort of supernatural lightbulb. 

He can phase through walls and objects like it’s nothing, though both parties notice if he slips through a person. Fancy shudders, pulls a pained sort of impression and the poor unsuspecting mortal shivers, feeling like they’ve had ice water dripped down their spine, as Morse found out quite accidentally whilst trying to grab his coat one morning. He stuck his hand right through Fancy, who had popped into view out of nowhere, and felt icy tendrils shoot up his arm and down his back. Cringing, he staggered backward, shaking out trembling fingers. 

“That was-” he grimaced. Fancy nodded, looking rather uncomfortable himself. 

“Gross, yeah.” They share a quick look, and then Morse inexplicably finds himself laughing. The bizzarity of it all struck him. Perhaps somewhere in the back of his mind, he had just realised Fancy had to be real enough, to cause a reaction like that, but either way, the image of Fancy, long dead yet taking up space in his hallway, tickled him. 

Fancy stared incredulously as Morse chuckled to himself. 

“I’m glad you think this is funny Morse,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest in that way he did, trying his best to be tough and intimidating; but there was a smirk hiding there somewhere. If anything, it made Morse laugh more. 

That Friday, Shirley met him at the train station, whisking him straight into a cab after she pulled him in for a quick hug. They dodged the rain, hopping in the car whilst Morse desperately avoided looking back for Fancy - he was already in the car by the time they get there anyway. 

The ride to Shirley’s flat wasn’t too long, only fifteen minutes or so, but Morse found it hard to concentrate on what she was saying when Fancy was sat beside her, staring with such rapt attention, like nobody else even exists. Shirley laughed at herself, a joke Morse must have missed, because he’s too distracted watching Fancy watching her. Who could blame him though, she was lovely. Morse couldn’t help the faint flutter in his chest as she curled a strand of hair between her fingers and flashed him that shrewd smile. He’d told Fancy once not to be so ridiculous, that there was nothing between them, and that had been the truth. That didn’t mean Morse didn’t look. Shirley Trewlove was smart, witty and beautiful, three things that very dangerous for a man so susceptible to lovely women as Endeavour Morse. 

* * *

They waited until the evening, because dead boyfriends weren’t something you just sprung on people. Shirley had produced two tickets to  _ Fiddler on the Roof  _ over dinner, and when Morse had asked how she got them at such short notice, she just smiled mysteriously. Dinner finished, they leisurely finished another bottle of wine as Shirley told him all about the new job, the girls she was living with, the one disastrous date she had been on. 

Fancy listened in, stood behind Morse’s shoulder. It had been decided that would be easiest, to stop Morse’s eyes flicking back over to him every few minutes. When Shirley excused herself to use the bathroom before they left, Morse gave him a look that asked  _ So?.  _ Fancy sighed. 

“She’s… doing well, isn’t she?” Morse nodded as he picked up the bill. “That’s good, I’m glad. She deserves it.” Morse raised an eyebrow. 

“You’re not jealous of the date?” Fancy shrugged.

“I’d be more upset if she didn’t see other people. Can’t expect her to wait for a dead bloke she knew barely a year, can I? As long as she’s happy.” 

Morse had to admire Fancy for that. His own romantic nature would probably have him sadly haunting every past love who broke his heart, and letting himself wallow in the misery. How Fancy had managed to be so wise when he was such a daft sod most of the time baffled him. Before Morse could respond though, Shirley reappeared and took him by the arm. 

“Come on Morse, we’ve got a show to get to!”

They kept up an idle chatter as they walked. Morse told her snippets of life the past few months, his stint in uniform, the move back to Thames Valley, life under Box, to which she laughed. 

“Come on Morse, if I can handle him so can you,” she said swatting his arm. Morse heard Fancy chuckle behind him, and he wondered if there was some sort of in-joke he was missing out on. They passed through Trafalgar, and Shirley smiled again. 

“There was a demonstration here a few months back,” she said waving a hand towards the gallery. “Equal pay for women, machinists.” She sighed. “There were some right pricks hanging around yelling crap. Reminded me of Box they did. Few of them got egged that was fun.” Morse laughed. 

“Look at you WDC Trewlove, policewoman, activist and natural Londoner; how do you do it all?” Shirley smirked, her arm coming up to link with Morse’s so she could pull him across the road and into the shadows of the awnings outside  _ Her Majesty’s Theatre.  _

“If you want something done, ask a busy woman Morse. “ 

* * *

The show is good, Morse enjoys it more than he cares to admit, but perhaps it’s the company, not just the music of the night. Fancy had disappeared as the curtain rises, and he didn’t see him again till the end of the show. Morse assumed he went and found himself a better seat- but then that would suggest he actually believed Fancy was real. Which he still wasn’t entirely sure was true.

As the curtain call ended, last bows done and the lights turned up, Morse turned to Shirley and offered an arm. They stepped out into the brisk London night, and he followed her sure footing to the station. It was late, and she offered a drink back at hers but Morse declined.

“Maybe next time?” She offered with a soft smile, squeezing his arm. Morse nodded, face flushed as she leant up to press a kiss to his cheek. 

“It’s been too long, really,” she started, then her eyes caught on something over his shoulder and she froze. Morse turned his head, to spot Fancy standing by the steps of the station. Hands in his pocket and a daft grin on his face, he nods at the pair of them. 

“Shirley?” Morse asked gently. Shirley blinked, once, then twice. Then she looked back at him and forced a laugh. 

“Oh, nothing just thought I saw- someone looked-” Her face fell for a second, and her eyes went teary. Morse reached out and grabbed her hand. “I understand.” Shirley pulled him in for a hug after that, and held him till they found themselves battered by a wave of late-night commuters. In the rush of the crowd, she thanked him one last time, before slipping away into the night. 

Morse rode the train home in silence, no sign of Fancy. Despite that, Morse felt strangely reassured. He was back, somehow. It was better than Morse going mad, he supposed.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s strange, after that, how easily Fancy slipped into Morse’s life again. It was as if he never left sometimes; in fact it’s as if he’s there even more. He turned up, every morning and Morse eventually stopped flinching when he just  _ popped  _ into being. He stuck around during the day, usually offering his own brand of detectiving as they go. A few weeks in and Fancy has mastered the art of lip reading, so Morse doesn’t have to keep hissing at him when he finds something at a crime scene. Morse learned to say more with just his face and it sort of works, he realised - having an extra pair of eyes, and neither of them questioned it really. Maybe it’s because they were both men who struggle to talk about their feelings, but neither asked why Fancy stuck around or why Morse hadn’t insisted he leave. 

Morse did have some questions though. At one point, when they’re stuck in a case that had them puzzled for nearly two weeks, he huffed as he fell into his chair that night, and glared at Fancy. 

“How come none of our victims ever appear to me like this?” He grumbled. “Can’t you go speak to them?” Fancy laughed, but it was a sobering sort of laugh. 

“I mean I could go find them and ask I suppose, just don’t know if I could come back again.” He looked off then, behind Morse and into the near distance, eyes a little hazy. Morse felt something tickle at the back of his neck, like a whisper on the wind, and it made him shiver. Fancy’s gaze snapped back to him. 

“Most people pass over to the other side.” 

Morse wanted to roll his eyes at such corniness, but something stopped him. He had the most ridiculous feeling that Fancy was right. Then Fancy pointed just behind him, at nothing in particular and smiled softly. 

“It’s just there, I could go,” he said quietly. “I wonder…” he trailed off, and Morse felt himself sit up a little straighter. “There’s probably people back there I know, huh? Aunt Lillian, grandad…” Whether or not he’s realised it, Fancy has stood up. Morse’s stomach twisted. 

“Do you want to go?” he heard himself ask. There was a beat of silence. 

“No, not just yet.” 

* * *

The anniversary of Fancy’s death rolls around, and Morse couldn’t help feeling strange about it all week. He felt like he should say something because Fancy certainly didn’t seem to realise, or if he did he wasn’t mentioning it. Strange did it for them instead, the day before. He wandered over to Morse’s office and asked if he was free the next evening. 

“Thought maybe we could… drinks tomorrow? Shirl’s not coming back up but I thought - you, me, the doc… For George,” he trailed off and both felt the weight of Thursday’s name. Morse wasn’t sure how to respond till Fancy’s head turned and he looked surprised at the sound of his own name. That did it for Morse; he nodded. 

Fancy wasn’t there the next morning when Morse woke. A sharp sting of something that might have been worry stung at his skin, but he reappeared a few hours later looking a little more melancholy than usual. It wasn’t till later Morse worked out who he had been visiting. Walking through the station was strange that morning. There were silences where they shouldn’t be, the Cowley lot all stuck in their heads, new Thames Valley faces not entirely sure of the mood, it was just  _ bizarre _ . They got through it though, and Morse thought he kept his composure pretty well. That was until he headed for the kitchenette, in search of tea, Fancy in tow. 

Thursday was stood there, pipe in hand, laughing at something someone had said. The someone, Morse realised upon rounding the corner was Box, who was smirking into his coffee. The pair of them stopped as he got closer, and Morse felt their eyes on his back as he ignored them. The clatter of teaspoon on ceramic is deafening. 

“You’re looking extra stroppy today Morse, what’s happened?” Box laughed unkindly. “Someone die or something?” Morse’s fingers tightened around his spoon painfully. He caught sight of Thursday out of the corner of his eye, not smiling anymore but not stepping in either. Fancy, stood between Morse and Box, bristled. 

“Just got off the phone with Constable Trewlove,” he lied smoothly. “She’s not having the best day, as you could imagine.” He made sure to catch Thursday’s eye then. “I told her we were all thinking of her.” He said nothing else, but watched Box’s jaw tighten and Thursday’s face fall. Tea made, he headed back for his office. 

(He did call Shirley, just before he left the station, so it’s not entirely a lie. She sounded better than he expected, though she got a little quiet when he mentioned where he was headed. 

“You know I would,” she said. “But I just don’t know I’m ready for Oxford just yet.”)

He met Strange for a drink, like they had planned. They nursed their drinks in a sad kind of quiet, then DeBryn appeared and brought with him conversation. It was easier with him there, not to fall into a hole of mourning all that had been lost in recent months. Thursday, Trewlove, Fancy; they were all gone now, in one way or another. It made other losses that much more poignant too. Jakes was noticeable in his absence from the usual pub crowd, thinking of Jakes reminded him of Bixby, and this pub always made him think of Monica; it was all too much at times. In only a few years everything had changed so much, and none of it, they felt, for the better. DeBryn and Strange felt almost like a links to the old world, to what had been good and steady times. Peculiar as the pair may have been, there was a certain sort of reliable comfort in them. 

A drink or two later, perhaps more if the way Morse was slouching in his chair was anything to go by, Strange shoved an elbow in his ribs and pointed across the pub. 

“Look sharp matey, it’s Bright! Didn’t think he’d actually come, but I asked, how weirds that?” Quite weird, actually, Morse thinks. The last time he saw Bright out of uniform was his stint in hospital, not something he cared to revisit, so watching him now in a plain shirt and coat, buying a round of drinks was different. 

Morse nodded gratefully as Bright pushed a glass towards him, waiting for the others to pick up theirs before Bright raised his. 

“For George,” Strange said, voice thick. Bright nodded. “For George.” DeBryn followed suit, but Morse found he had lost his voice all of a sudden, as he caught sight of Fancy, stood behind Bright and DeBryn with tears in his eyes. He nodded and threw back the drink, and when he looked back Fancy was gone. He felt tears stinging his own eyes. 

“For George.” 

* * *

As strange as it is sitting in a pub, more than a bit pissed with your colleague, your pathologist  **(and sometimes lover), ** and your old DCI, it actually turned into quite a nice evening. The mood was a little sombre, sure but the conversation good and the drinks plentiful. It was perhaps too soon to be laughing about ‘the old days’ but they tried anyway. Morse was in the middle of drunkenly retelling them how he reprimanded Fancy for turning up half-cut when Strange’s laughter dried up. A shadow fell across the table, and Morse refused to look up. 

“Can I get a round?” Thursday asked. Morse said nothing, and Strange nodded quietly. Bright stood and followed Thursday to the bar, whilst DeBryn looked as though he was trying to figure out everything he’d missed. 

Morse stayed, for the extra drink, but made no attempt to talk to Thursday. Something just felt so wrong, so off about all of it now. Then the door creaked open again, and Box appeared from the crowd, and Morse stomach rolled. Thursday might be able to sit across from the man, but Morse wouldn’t. Standing with only a slight wobble, Morse made his goodbyes and slipped out before Box could reach them. 

The cool breeze that had picked up sobered him a little, enough for him to realise for a moment just how shit everything had gone. 

“Who killed you?” Morse asked that night, after a few more drinks and long sad looks off Fancy. He had realised, quite suddenly, that the whole mystery could be solved right now. But Fancy’s face was tight. Then he flickered, and there was blood on his chest again. His hand went to it, absently pressing against empty scars. 

“I don’t… I can’t remember. I don’t know.” 

Morse doesn’t ask him again, but it doesn’t matter. They find out soon enough. It had all felt, for the longest time, as though something was brewing. The air was thicker, charged with something indescribable. It felt like they were on the verge of something, a storm about to break. It all came to a head after the building collapse, as the pieces fell into place, slowly but surely. Then the phone in Morse’s office rang, and it was Max and then he was gone. 

Fancy couldn’t stop him storming past, heading out to the building site alone. The world had taken enough from him, it wasn’t going to take Max too. By the time the gunfire stopped, and the whole damn thing had ended, Morse felt strangely empty. Hollow, perhaps. The anger that had been fuelling him for months now gone. There was a confused mix of trust now; they had found Fancy’s killer, and Thursday admitted his wrong turns, and Box had come through in the end, and was about to pay the ultimate price for it. 

Max, at least, was safe. Morse felt that deserved a drink. Once home, Fancy watched him pour himself a glass of whatever he had nearest. He’d been there through it all, and Morse couldn’t help asking. 

“Is that it now? You know who did it now, are you… ready?” Fancy shuffled where he stood, and Morse should have been unnerved by the lack of sound that made - but he’d gotten weirdly used to it now. 

“Sure, I mean, I am… just not sure everyone else is,” he said, scratching the back of his neck and avoiding Morse’s eyes. “Think I’ll stick around. For a bit.” 

* * *

A bit turns into a year, turns into two then three and then somehow ten, fifteen. They become old men together, somewhere along the way. Faces change around them, buildings too. The world turns around them, but it’s always the two of them. Morse and Fancy. To the outside world, it’s just Morse, and his peculiar brand of loneliness, his habit of returning home to a quiet flat and his records, drink and women. And okay, yes, it is all of that but it’s also long nights spent watching crappy hospital dramas, because his dead constable-slash-live-in-ghost-roomate is addicted and Morse gave up fighting him on it years ago. It’s the odd pop-singer in his record collection, the addition of a cassette radio and a box of tapes Morse can’t stand. It’s Morse repainting the walls not because he wants to but because the ghost in his living room says it’s too dreary. 

It’s being followed to work by a man who is not on payroll, and yet insists on giving his two pennies on most every case he works. Not that he minds all that much though, because Fancy’s become a better detective in death. By the time Morse has made inspector, Fancy may as well have too. They’re a pair, inseparable at this point. It’s not Fancy anymore, Morse calls him George - once Georgie, but they both hated that - and Fancy figured out his first name years ago. Fancy still looks as young as ever, perks of being a dead man walking, but Morse is not so youthful. He tells George it’s his fault his hair has lost it’s colour, because that’s what perpetual haunting will do to you. He’s not as scrawny either, and that’s George’s fault too; nagging him to eat and sleep and take care of himself. 

There comes a time when someone else appears in Morse’s life though, another young sergeant who reminds him of lunch and grabs him tea. Robbie Lewis is fresh faced, cheerful and altogether everything Morse is not. He’s a lot like George though, and not too much younger. Sometimes Morse will look from Lewis to George, see how the years might have aged him. He wonders if George would have settled down with Shirley in the end, had two kids and a house in the suburbs like Lewis. Perhaps it’s seeing something of George in him that makes Morse hang on to Lewis, he thinks watching the dead man nose over the shoulder of his sergeant. Then they both look over and he hurries his gaze away with a grumble that the pair of them smirk at. 

* * *

People start dying, because of course they do, that’s the circle of life. Morse doesn’t mean to but he can’t help wondering if or when they’ll pop up to haunt him. Bright never does, he goes in his sleep when his lifelong smoking habit catches up with him. Thursday, who had survived on a bullet laden chest this long, took ill one summer and died in the garden the weekend the leaves turned golden. He does appear, for a moment, at the funeral. Morse stands to the side trying not to think about all the feelings seeing the Thursdays again brings. Mrs. Thursday still seems well, though understandably distraught on her daughter’s arm. He exchanges polite nods with both of them, shakes Sam Thursday’s hand and marvels at how tall the boy - man - has grown. He doesn’t say anything but he must realise Morse can see him, because he nods at him, then at Fancy and then just like that, a sunbeam washes over him and he’s gone. Morse doesn’t get a chance to say anything, but George tells him later that he’s sure Thursday knew. 

Morse finds out that Peter Jakes has died days before Hope’s letter even arrives. He’s sitting in his living room one evening, a drink in hand when Fancy stiffens, and they both look up to see an old man in the corner of the room. The figure flickers for a second, mouth gaping. Then suddenly it’s Jakes, looking like he’s stepped out of 1967, and the first thing out of his mouth is;

“Cor you got old,” and then “What the hell just happened?” and then “Am I having a stroke?” 

Morse finds his voice again, though it’s thick and scratches at his throat. “Think you just did, Peter.” 

Then Fancy waves, gesturing to the bloody marks he’s let adorn his chest again. Jakes sees him, and it all clicks into place. “Weird,” he says, image flickering once again. Morse catches glimpses of greying hair, of arthritic fingers and a battered pair of glasses, before he settles back on his younger face. Must be something about Oxford, Morse thinks. Jakes hovers for a moment, pats himself down for a cigarette he doesn’t find and dops his hands. 

“It’s been too long Morse. You never... “ the words hang there in the air, and then sink somewhere into Morse’s chest. He tries to find a response, but Jakes is already fading from view, something pulling him away. He smiles, shaking his head. 

“We’ll have to catch up, you know, once you kick the bucket,” he says and Morse raises his glass stiffly. He manages, just before Jakes vanishes, to crack a smile. 

“It’s only a matter of time.” 

The day Max passes is one of the hardest. He keeps up a good face, ribs him till the end but when it comes down to it, he’s terrified. He sits by his bedside for hours, throat tight and eyes wet. Fancy is beside him, and for a while Morse can’t look at him. He looks too much like thirty years ago, like the fresh faces and the old times and it’s just too painful. Then he does look, and Fancy has sunk in a chair beside Max, and Morse finds it in him to say something. He tells Fancy about the first autopsy of Max’s he attended. His fainting spell, and all Max’s little barbs ever since. He finds himself remembering all sorts as he speaks, the strangest of memories come flooding back. Fancy listens, and he’s sure Max does too. Morse talks until his voice cracks, and they fall quite as the sun sets. 

Quiet as anything, as the lamplights outsider cast the room in a warm glow, Max passes. Morse calls for a nurse, a doctor, anyone, but he knows it’s too late. When he steps back to let them tend to Max, he knows his friend is gone.

Max appears, for a moment, outside, just before Morse leaves. His hand on the car door, he almost cries out at the sight of Max standing beside him. 

“I’m dead,” he says, quite matter of factly, and Morse doesn’t know how to respond to that. He looks Max over; drinking in the sight because he knows this probably won’t last. Max doesn’t isn’t the type to stay, he’s sure. He asks regardless, a little hope clinging to his voice. 

“I don’t think so, Morse.” Morse nods, understanding, as much as he wishes he didn’t. Max looks him over once again, then over at Fancy, as if he’s only just noticed him. 

“Oh, constable!” Max’s visage wavers, and he cracks a smile, for a moment regaining all the youth of fourty-odd years ago. That’s too much for Morse, and the tears in his eyes finally fall. Max, looks at him with that familiar old face and smiles sadly. 

“I’ll see you on the other side, Morse.”

* * *

One particularly bad night when Morse is low and his music loud, he can’t find Fancy and he’s struck with terror from nowhere. They’ve been like this,  _ together,  _ for so long now he can’t imagine him not being there. He cries out and Fancy appears like magic. Through bleary eyes Morse reaches for a hand he knows he cannot touch. The cold tendrils that strike him as Fancy’s hand meets his feels less like fear nowadays, 

“Wait for me,” he says softly, fingers dancing through the air. “I’m coming.” 

* * *

Morse knows he isn’t well. He hasn’t been for a while. Despite his best efforts George can’t break the habits of a lifetime, and Morse knows he drinks too much. There’s a number of other things he does, or doesn’t do, that might have changed the way it all panned out, but there’s no time for regrets or remorse now; not when he’s bent over, seeing double, with a hand to his heart as fire burns through every vein. 

It’s all a blur, but Morse recognises faces and voices. George sounds somehow further away and right beside him, and there’s other voices too. Hands on him, and then wires and tubes that he hates but doesn’t have the energy to pull away. Strange is there, at some point, speaking to him and Morse wants to respond. There’s something important, something he had been meaning to say for ages now, that he had never managed and he thinks, if this is it, then he needs to say it now.  _ Thank Lewis for me.  _

There’s a thunderous crack of pain, and then nothing. One minute he’s lying there and everything feels loud and looks dark, and then he blinks and it’s all okay again. He’s standing up though, and that’s weird because he doesn’t remember getting up. He doesn’t remember much really, of anything that’s just happened. He feels different, somehow, certainly better than a moment ago. There’s less pain in his chest, no twinge in his hip, no throbbing in his head and the suffocating feeling has gone. He lifts a hand to his head, rubs it, and that’s when his eyes find George again. But George isn’t looking at him, he’s staring at the bed that Strange is staring at too, at the bed that Morse can quite clearly see himself in. 

“Ah,” he says, and feels rather faint all of a sudden. George’s head snaps up and he gapes at Morse. The hand he’s holding up is a lot different to the one he’s used to. It’s smooth skin and strong nails and it’s  _ young _ . George is suddenly beside him, hand reaching for his and if Morse still had a heart it would be pounding in his chest. Their fingers meet, and Morse marvels at the fact he’s found something solid, that his hand hasn’t just slid through George like normal. 

“Morse?” George asks barely above a whisper. There’s a light curling around him one Morse has never noticed before. Like he’s shining from the inside out. The marks on his chest are gone too, there’s no blood anymore. George looks more whole than he has done in years. Tears sting in Morse’s eyes and he isn’t sure how that works because he’s pretty sure he’s  _ dead. _

George’s fingers wrap around his and they’re warm. Morse falls into the touch, and suddenly George’s arms are around him. 

“Let’s go home.”

**Author's Note:**

> hope yall enjoyed this wild ride!!


End file.
